


repping for that low life

by trailmydust



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blood, M/M, Minor Violence, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trailmydust/pseuds/trailmydust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kavinsky feels the violence in him melting and twisting, coiling tighter and tighter as it becomes desire, hot and heavy in his belly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	repping for that low life

**Author's Note:**

> ugh I just have lots of kavinsky/prokopenko feelings and this is basically none of them and instead completely pwp. you have been warned.
> 
> title from Low Life by Future

Prokopenko’s got Skov and Swan all over him, mouths on neck and hands down pants. Kavinsky watches as Proko licks a smear of white from Swans upper lip, watches as Skov sinks his teeth into Proko’s neck. He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand before chucking it across the room, feels a sharp rush of pleasure as it shatters against the wall above their heads. 

“The fuck are you doing?” he asks when Skov and Swan turn to look at him, pupils blown and mouths slack. Proko just smirks, eyes hooded but locked on Kavinsky’s own as he draws a hand leisurely up Skovs back. “Just having some fun,” Swan says eventually, voice slow and movements slower as he pulls away from Prokopenko.

“And you didn’t think to invite me? Shame.” He pouts, tries to rearrange his face into disappointed instead of vicious. Doesn’t seem to work, Skov and Swan are shifting away from Proko even before Kavinsky starts moving. He throws a punch at Skov, all his weight behind it, but there’s Proko instead catching Kavinsky’s fist in his teeth. Proko doesn’t stumble back, snaps his head to the side to absorb the force so Kavinsky shoves him back onto the couch, clambers onto Proko’s lap and grabs his chin to force his eyes up, fingernails digging into skin. 

There’s blood pouring from Proko’s lip where it split but he’s grinning anyway, sharp and dark, eyes intense on Kavinsky’s as he prods the split with his tongue. Kavinsky feels the violence in him melting and twisting, coiling tighter and tighter as it becomes desire, hot and heavy in his belly.

“Get the fuck out,” Kavinsky growls over his shoulder at Skov and Swan, not even bothering to turn around to see if they listened before he leans forward and bites at Proko’s bloody lip, presses bloody kisses over his cheeks before licking the blood off in long, wet swipes. Proko shudders beneath him, twisting his hips up where Kavinsky can feel how hard he is.

“This get you hot?” Kavinsky asks, lips pressed to Proko’s ear as he scrapes a fingernail hard across Proko’s busted lip. “Or didn’t Skov and Swan take care of you properly?” Proko doesn’t answer, just turns to look at Kavinsky. They’re too close for Kavinsky to make out his features properly and the dimness of the room bleaches all colour from Prokopenko’s face but Kavinsky knows this face better than his own, created it piece by painstaking piece from his mind. “They don’t know how to take care of you. Not like I do,” Kavinsky hisses into the inch of space between them. “I made you. Your mine.”

It’s not the first time Kavinsky’s said this to Prokopenko, feels the need to remind him every other day but Kavinsky’s always wondered if Proko knows how very literal he’s being. Looking at Proko now, Kavinsky doesn’t have to wonder. There’s a sick kind of pleasure in Prokopenko’s gaze, “And now I’m finally real,” he murmurs. He reaches up to press a finger to the middle of Kavinsky’s forehead, “Realer than anything else.” His eyes are boring into Kavinsky’s, daring Kavinsky to deny it but Kavinsky won’t, can’t. He knows this Prokopenko inside and out, knows that Proko has the same understanding of him, accidental but unable to be taken away now.

Kavinsky kisses him instead, mostly teeth but a little bit of tongue and Proko sighs into his mouth. “Let me blow you,” Proko says when Kavinsky pulls away. Kavinsky reaches down to palm himself, wondering if he’s hard and is pleasantly surprised to find that he is, so he gestures for Prokopenko to go ahead. Proko slides down on the couch and urges Kavinsky onto his knees, sliding his hands up Kavinsky’s thighs to his ass. Proko’s fingers are quick and deft on Kavinsky’s belt, feels like he blinks and his cock is out, tip pressed to Proko’s bloody lower lip. Prokopenko guides one of Kavinsky’s hands to his cock, puts the other in his hair and goes slack, letting Kavinsky pull him slowly onto his cock. Proko’s lips are soft, blood slightly tacky on his cock before it disappears into the spit slick heat of Proko’s mouth but mostly Kavinsky can feel the hard pressure of Proko’s tongue stud where Proko presses it into the underside of his cock.

Kavinsky groans and snaps his hips forward, feels his cock nudge the back of Proko’s throat but Proko just takes it and keeps taking it as Kavinsky let’s go of himself and just uses Proko. He doesn’t know how much time passes before he feels his orgasm creeping up on him. It could have been an hour, maybe a few minutes but probably less and he doesn’t care because Proko’s groaning around his cock, tears leaking form his eyes. He yanks Proko off his cock as he starts to come, lets his jizz stripe Proko’s cheeks and lips and chin and watches Proko jerk as the first splash hits his skin.

Kavinsky slumps to the side when he’s done, let’s his mind spin out as he catches his breath until he registers Prokopenko shifting restlessly beside him. He blinks his eyes slowly, glances at Proko’s lap and sees he’s still hard. “Fuck,” Kavinsky mutters, turning to press up against Proko’s side, “take care of that, won’t you?” He watches lazily as Proko fumbles around with his jeans, doesn’t bother to help when Proko gets the zipper stuck on his boxers. 

When Proko’s finally got his cock in hand and is stroking it roughly, Kavinsky turns further to look at Proko’s face, look at the mess he’s made. It makes satisfaction curl low in his gut, makes him want to bite his ownership into Proko’s neck so he does, teeth sharp against soft, sweaty skin. Kavinsky drags his fingers through the slick on Proko’s chin, semen mixed with blood mixed with spit, and feeds it carefully to Proko, fingers stroking over Proko’s tongue, around the hard metal ball of his stud. He keeps doing it, until Proko’s face is almost clean and Proko’s thrashing and whining beside him. “Let me come,” Proko begs.

“Why do you need my permission?” Kavinsky asks, feigning surprise even as he curls his fingers around Proko’s throat, a collar.

“Because I’m yours,” Proko sighs, “You made me, I’m yours.”

“Yes,” Kavinsky hisses and Proko finally comes, all over his belly where his tank has been pushed up.

They sit in silence for a moment, just Proko’s harsh breathing and the bass of Skov’s music pounding in from the next room over. Kavinsky tucks his dick back into his pants and stands abruptly, suddenly jittery and craving a pill.

“Not gonna make me eat this too?” Proko asks before Kavinsky can yank the door open and escape. Kavinsky glances back to where Proko’s still slumped on the couch, finger trailing idly through the come on his stomach.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t love it,” Kavinsky smirks but he has no patience for Proko anymore, the craving for sex has been satisfied and now something more insistent is pulling at him, tugging him out of the room and down the hallway.

“Never said anything about not loving it,” Proko calls after him and it makes Kavinsky laugh, high and long because he doesn’t think there’s anything he could do that Prokopenko wouldn’t love.


End file.
